


Soleil et Lune

by ElvenHeroine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Development, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Female Character of Color, Grumpy Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Love/Hate, Modern Girl in Thedas, Slow Burn, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenHeroine/pseuds/ElvenHeroine
Summary: Sol regrets that she cannot accompany the apostate back to Haven immediately to receive proper care. She’s sure enough that the woman is well-cared for under Harding, at least for now, but there is one pressing issue to address before she can leave the Fallow Mire. And she doesn’t very well trust Cullen not to execute poor Wildris on the spot after all that she’s been through.“Blackwall. You asked why the Inquisition is here. Some goat-fuckers kidnapped people that I’m supposed to be in charge of. You’re going to help me get them back, or you’re going to leave, because I’m up to here with this place and I’ve got a lot of people waiting for me.”------ OR:Sol, a desert hermit with the temperament of a cactus, is unwittingly thrust into the care of a very angry Seeker following what she believes to be a bizarre kidnapping.She is not pleased to find herself without her pup.Nor is she pleased to find that nothing here is as is should be, and she can shoot sparks out of her hands like in those Star Wars vids. At least here, solitude is a stone's throw away. If Cassandra will ever stop hounding her.





	1. Reckoning

**Author's Note:**

> [ The usual bit, this is my first DA:I universe story, and any feedback is welcomed! ]

The first thing Sol registers is pain - and the absence of it, followed by the scent of brimstone and mold. ‘ _ I must have a concussion _ ,’ she thinks to herself, sluggishly,  her arm twitching upwards out of habit to rub her temple. Or, it would have, if not for the coarse binds restraining her. She’s alarmed to find that the other is numb, no more than dead weight bound behind her back, but still attached insofar as she can tell. 

“Nerve damage?” she mutters groggily to herself, inhaling a pained breath as her brows force a frown, a painful and not at all welcome one considering her current state. She imagines that this is what being resucitated from drowning feels like: a fire in her lungs, a jumble of thoughts, and darkness. She doesn’t have much time to ponder the thought before the chamber - a prison, as she hastily discovers - is flooded with light, and a slam so loud that it makes her ears ring. Or perhaps they were already ringing?

Sol really can’t be bothered to remember. Not when a brutish woman stalks beyond her from the blinding light, pulling her mane to the point of straining, her semi-prone form rasping with the effort of breathing with her throat held taut. It takes all she has not to jerk away, knowing that even if she were to pull free, she would be met with nothing more than a mouthful of dirt.

“I should kill you,” the accented woman hisses into her ear, with such intent that Sol believes her. Her chin falls to the earth with a clack, and a yelp on her end when her hair is dropped, and she already knows by the stinging of it that it will leave a mark. So much for her caution. “Confess,” the woman says to her simply, the sound dull in her ears as she curls in on herself. 

“Seeker-,” a voice interjects, masculine, and smooth though she cannot yet determine its origin. 

“Go. The prisoner will not be needing your help.”

Sol almost wants to call out, hearing a sharp intake of breath before the man presumably turns heel, and ascends the steps from where they’d both come. Pity. Instead, she turns her head, using her unsullied eye to survey her captor at last. Tall, sun-kissed, and ambigous in origin. More importantly, armed and angry. At her, most unfortunately of all. 

“Where?” Sol croaks out, coughing out some dust before wetting her parched lips, “where am I?”

“Nowhere you do not deserve,” the ‘Seeker’ retorts, her armored foot bearing down on her abdomen until she’s turned on her back, her lungs attempting to cough out air she does not possess. Only then does the Seeker crouch down beside her body, her expression hard, and disgusted over what she sees. “Confess.”

And Sol, to her credit, musters the strength to spit right back in the Seeker’s face. She’s certain enough that regardless of what she does, these people have a plan for her. Why else bring her to this strange place?

“I did  _ nothing _ ,” she hisses in return, relishing the taste of blood on her tongue when a well-earned slap turns her cheek. The sound of it echoes around the chamber almost as loudly as the Seeker’s frustration. She adds, for good measure,“And I don’t know what sort of freak show this is, but you can’t hide me here forever.”

Sol is certain that she’s set to receive another blow when a second voice interjects, honey-like and tempered, yet accented, like this ‘Seeker.’ She can’t quite place it.

“Cassandra. We need her. Come.”

“Hmph.”

The next thing Sol knows, she’s on her feet, being pulled into the cold light beyond the doorway. And it is, breathtaking. Alien, breathtaking, and thoroughly disorienting. It does her head no favors.

“I’m…”

“Proud of your handiwork?” Cassandra grouses, releasing her to the snow below while she shifts her weight, and crosses her arms over her chest. 

Sol isn’t proud of it, but being as parched as she is, she doesn’t stop the snow from quenching her thirst while she’s already face-down on it. It’s enough to allow her to wiggle from her prone position back onto her feet, and glare at the Seeker while her vision adjusts. 

“I don’t even know where I am, lady.”

“Then explain this!” she gestures to the sky, torn and gnarled as it is, then snatches Sol’s arm with bruising strength. All she hears is the sound of steel being drawn, and the sensation of feeling returning to her wrist - just the one. The other is held in Cassandra’s grasp, her palm just as gnarled as the sky above. It’s enough to bring her pause, full lips parted wordlessly as she wills her fingers to move. It’s pins and needles with each twitch, yet unlike with her other arm, the feeling never truly returns.

“I don’t know,” she admits, slowly, and jerks her shoulder back to regain control of her arm from the brutish Navarran. “And from the sound of it, neither do you.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Cassandra warns, appearing fully ready to push her back into the snow. But with her wits about her, and her hands - hand - at her disposal, Sol is not ready to go down so quietly. 

“Touch me. I dare you. I’m done being pushed around for something I  _ didn’t _ do!”

Cassandra’s lips press into a line, realizing that the red-maned woman is not so easily intimidated. Foolishly, she finds, seeing as she is the armed one here. As if Cassandra needs any more reasons to cut her down. “What is your name, prisoner?”

“Sol. Mind telling me what’s going on? I didn’t sign up for whatever this is.”  _ This… larp event _ , she’d add, though for her ears only. Thoughts, really. She’s seen enough, heard enough to know that she is far, far from home. It almost feels as though she’s entered an entirely different reality, but… such a thing is absurd. Impossible. Just hours before - hours, days? - she’d been hunting with Lumen. Somehow, someway, someone must have caught them out, kidnapped her and taken her to this place. But that is a train of thought better left to a time in which she is alone, and free to look for Lumen. Maybe if she plays along, this ‘Cassandra’ will release her?

She waves her good hand, rubbing it over her forehead subsequently. “Nevermind. Just. What evil do we need to defeat so I can get out of here?”

_ That’s how this sort of thing works, right? _

Still, her brusque manner of asking - demanding more like - captures the Seeker’s attention.

“You would help us? Even after--”

“You split my chin and pulled my hair? Had worse from my dog. Let’s go.”

All Cassandra does is peer at her for a long moment as if assessing the truth of her words, then relent with a sigh, and motion her along. First, of course, and into the angry eyes of the villagers of Haven. Rotten fruit isn’t far to follow.

“Ugh,”Sol mutters, brushing tomato pulp and cabbage from her shoulder. “You’re all… a little too dedicated.”

“Can you blame them? They believe you have murdered our most holy, Divine Justinia.”

“And what do you believe, Cassandra?”

“I cannot say yet. You are… difficult.”

“I’ll take it.”

_ What a load of horseshit. _

⤁

Cassandra does not take well to learning that Sol is a mage. To be fair, the red-maned woman hadn’t seen it coming either. It’s the first time since arriving in this place that she begins to doubt whether she’s really awake, or in some sort of coma. 

“What do you mean, you  _ didn’t know _ ?”

“I’m  _ saying _ , if I  _ had _ known, I would have fried you when you were in my face. Think about it, Cassandra.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

_ It doesn’t make me feel any better either, lady. _

Sol snorts, shaking the energy from her fists before glancing from the Navarran, and to the shards of ice at her feet. A demon. A real goddamned, in the flesh, demon. She’d punched it right in the maw out of reflex, more than a little horrified, but what else could she do? Turn tail and scream to the high heavens for help? Pah. The magic had been no more than an unexpected boon, and even now, Sol can feel it roiling within her body as if awakened. It brings more feeling to her deadened arm than anything has so far, and she relishes it silently. 

Fighting, she’s familiar with. Fighting, she can do. A hole in the sky, tearing the fabric of reality apart -  _ if, _ this is reality…. that, she will have to file away in ‘things to panic over later’. Now is not the time. Her gaze strays back to the Seeker. 

“What’s next, Cassandra?”

“Up the hill. I can hear the fighting. They will need our help.”

“Who?”

Cassandra merely gestures her forward. Beyond the hill, they’re met with a squirmish, and…. a rift. Cassandra charges beyond her, leaving her to her own devices, and Sol has no time to survey their allies before another shade stalks towards her. The red-maned woman feels the clutches of fear grasping her gut for the barest of moments, frost misting her knuckles before it turns to fire - and with it, fear to fury. 

“You,” she grunts, throwing herself forward into the shade brazenly. “Are not,” her fist follows, then two, and three. And suddenly her side burns, the shade’s claws finding her unarmored form as readily as she’d found it. Sol hisses in return, her heart thundering in her ears as the pain registers as resoundingly  _ real _ , and drives her fist aflame right into its ugly, monstrous, face. “Real!”

“This isn’t real, this can’t be real,” she whispers to herself, taking a knee to craddle the gash at her side once the dust settles. She’s fraying at the edges, she feels it, needs to finish this and leave these strange people behind as soon as possible. Solas does not afford her the time. He yanks her to her feet, shouting something she cannot follow, and in an instant  _ all  _ feeling is restored to her deadened arm. All terrible, excruciating feeling. Knitting, pulling, fraying, just like her. The rift is sealed and she is exhausted. Everything begins adding up - the cell, the first shade, and now this. She’s gone insane. 

“I was not sure that would work. I am pleased to have been wrong,” the apostate remarks, unable to release her arm fast enough for her to avoid jerking it back herself.

“Don’t touch me,” Sol hisses in return, craddling the numbing limb back to herself. Mad, all of them. They’re insane.  _ This  _ is insane. Solas appears more than a little intrigued, and it unnerves her almost as much as seeing his aquiline features, his tapered ears.

“You alright there, Red?”

Really, a dwarf? If laughing wouldn’t upset her weeping side, she would. Heartily. And perhaps a bit shrill.

“Fine. I’m fine. Cassandra, what next?”

She wishes Lumen were here. Cassandra eyes her warily, and sheaths her weapon in favor of making introductions. 

“We advance to the temple. Sol, this is Solas, an apostate like you. And this is--”

“Tethras, Varric Tethras. Two parts dashing rogue, one part storyteller, and very glad to see you. Thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.”

“You’re welcome,” Sol remarks bitingly, waving any and all further comment off in favor of beginning their ascent to the temple. She doesn’t even want to imagine what her clothes look like after everything she’s put them through.

She’s not ready for the pride demon, when it comes. But at least, before she loses consciousness, she thinks that she can hear Lumen howling in the distance.

_ Good boy. _


	2. Claustrophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sol has a few less than optimal encounters with people that she will be spending (in her opinion) far too much time with.
> 
> Or:
> 
> Magic makes Cullen uncomfortable, Varric plays games, and Solas sympathizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Oml, I'm so sorry. I've had the ideas floating around in my head, but no time! As usual, feedback is appreciated, you lovely people. )

“Cassandra… we cannot have the Herald of Andraste trapezing across the countryside using her fists for everything like a barbarian. This requires… tact. We must ease the minds of the faithful.”

If Lady Montilyet believed that she was being subtle in her assessment, it is certainly a sentiment lost on Sol, who is not sure of whether or not she should be insulted or flattered. Cassandra’s ensuing onslaught of questions decidedly channels the former. 

“You were taught at least one form of armed combat, were you not?”

“Not… exactly. Unless a crossbow is like a gu-- erm. Gu… gullet?”

She wants to slap herself. Cassandra looks like she very much wants to do the same. Nothing the girl does makes sense, much less anything that falls out of her blessed mouth. She rubs her temple irately.

“You are helpless. It is difficult to believe that you were taught nothing, unless you were truly plucked from the heavens. Where do you come from, Sol?”

For Cassandra, it was a question borne of practicality. But Leliana - their spymaster she had come to learn - looks positively dangerous as she steps into the torchlight as if alerting Sol that she shan’t lie on this matter. Likewise, Josephine’s interest is piqued while the Commander is pretending not to listen, his gaze directed elsewhere.

She gulps, seeing no other resort. She wishes, for the umpteenth time, that Lumen were here.

“I don’t know.”

“That is absurd. You expect us to believe--”

“I fell out of the goddamned sky, is what everyone keeps telling me. I can’t remember anything before waking in the dungeons. Is that so hard to believe?”

She can almost hear the Chancellor in the back of her mind sneering something to the effect of ‘how convenient.’ It is fortuitous indeed that he had been removed before he could ruffle too many of her feathers, for Sol is not too sure that she could have held back from accosting the man if he’d flapped his beak one more time. She’s not sure why she feels compelled to lie. Perhaps, it has everything to do with how the spymaster’s eyes had not once failed to follow her, picking her apart, she’s sure. Adding to that… the fact that the longer she remains, the less this strange world feels like a dream. Luckily, Josephine comes to her rescue before the situation can get out of hand, touching a single hand to Cassandra’s tense shoulders. 

“What is done, is done. We must focus on the task at hand. I will sort out the details of our… unique situation for our more esteemed visitors.”

“As it happens, an opportunity has presented itself. A chantry mother by the name of Mother Giselle has requested an audience with the Herald,” Leliana interjects smoothly, yet not all trace of suspicion is gone from her gaze. In fact, Sol would say that it has only heightened. Regardless, she breathes a sigh of relief as the conversation shifts away from her.

“There is nothing for it then,” Cassandra sighs, “Commander, you will have to take on a new recruit. I will ask Solas if he will assist her with her magic.”

She had rightly assumed that Sol is positively clueless when it comes to controlling her unexpected boon. Still, it does nothing to soften the blow when Cullen speaks for the second time since introducing himself, sounding exhasperated.

“As he should. I will not have an untrained mage wandering Haven unsupervised. It’s like asking for an abomination.”

She draws her lips into a displeased line, but sees no alternative to following their commands. She could run, but as Cassandra had pointed out when she’d first wandered into the Chantry after waking, she would forfeit any pretense of protection from the Inquisition. And without her Lumen…. Sol continues hoping that perhaps, he will catch her scent and return to her if she remains long enough.

Cullen turns to the disgruntled Herald, already striding for the door as he addresses her, “We start now. To the training grounds. Don’t bother eating anything, it will do you more harm than good.”

“Ladies first,” she insists venomously, closing the gap between them to reach for the door. It’s a tense few seconds before he relents with a huff, and advances to the cold light beyond. She is not far to follow.

Josephine appears positively anxious, watching the two go while Leliana merely smirks, and extends a hand to her shoulder, “Don’t worry Josie. It is a wise placement, putting those two together.”

“If you are sure… I worry that the Herald may just gray him all the faster, with her… ahm, particular brand of charm.”

It’s not an entirely inaccurate assessment. Within the hour she is out of breath, bruised, and entirely certain that her ass is frostbitten from all the time she’s spent on the snow with it. Cullen urges her to stand stoically once more, devoid of his coat and arms in favor of putting her existing skills to the test in a flexible manner. Not to be interpreted as, ‘going easy on her.’ No, he treats her with all the vigor of any other recruit, if not more. The task to which he’s been bid seems to thoroughly disgust him, and Sol for the life of her can’t imagine why. 

“If you would just,” she pants, taking in a greedy gulp of air after she’s knocked back for the umpteenth time that evening, “let me rest for a moment, I could--”

“Rest? You think a demon, or another of your kind would stop and wait for you if you asked for a rest nicely? If I were anyone else, you would be dead. On your feet.”

“Well it’s lucky that you’re not anyone else, isn’t it?” she bites out, incensed as she pushes her protesting legs into standing once more, and takes up the wooden sword that the Commander had given her. With one last burst of strength, she bounds forward, swinging the weapon as she would a bat. Just as the motion is a familiar one, she feels the similar, alluring pull of power spreading from her core. It brings more than just pins and needles to her deadened arm as it had before, and she is so caught up in the exhilaration of it that she doesn’t notice when her aura begins leaking into her weapon. But she most certainly does notice when the Commander stops short, his expression turning for the worst before he extinguishes what hope she could have had for striking him. 

This time, as she finds herself on her back without him having lifted a finger, she is sure that she is dying. Everything around her is dull - the light not so bright, the sound of birds and steel against steel muffled in her ears. For a long moment she feels listless, and it is a horrible feeling, one of being trapped inside of her own body, without the power to lift even a single finger. She does not know how much time passes before she is aware that she is gasping at the Commander, regaining the wind that’s been knocked out of her while he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Learn. Control. We do  _ not _ use magic here. Your hand-to-hand is lacking, and your weapon skills are non-existent. Go. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

And for the first time, she does not have a witty remark to mask her discomfort. Cassandra, at least, had the courtesy to _ stay out of her head _ when accosting her. This Commander, Cullen she had heard him called, inspires a certain sort of fear. Not one borne of what he could do to her physically, but of how he could so easily - without even a twitch of the eye - discard of the only thing grounding her in this strange place. She hates it. More particularly, she hates that she doesn’t even know exactly what had happened. Were there others like him?

_ ‘Your kind’... pah. _

And so she goes. She strides quickly, cradling her numbing arm as her mind turns the notion over uncomfortably. So distracted is she, that walking straight into a certain pintsized dwarf is only barely enough to knock her from her inattention. 

“Easy there, Red. What’s the hurry?”

“Nothing - I… do you know where I can find something to eat? I’m starving,” she blurts out, coming to the realization now that she’s away from Cullen.

“I thought you'd never ask,”

Varric doesn’t pry, and for that she is grateful. Once she’s settled however, wolfing down the stew he’d procured like the barbarian their resident ambassador thinks her to be, he seems to be unable to stave off the curiosity. 

“Trouble in paradise with Curly?”

She snorts. Understatement of the century.

“Nice try, little man.”

“I resent that,” Varric starts, appearing wholly unimpressed. Not offended, she’d add, but with the air of someone who’d heard  _ that _ joke one too many times. She doesn’t doubt it. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust any of you,” she denies gleefully, but with decidedly less venom than she would if he were anyone else. Varric has been kind to her, she decides, what ever his reasons may be. 

“You wound me,” he gasps, placing a hand over his furry chest with enough mock offense that she nearly chokes on a carrot. “I imagine asking you anything is going to land me right back to square one.”

“Correct.”

“How about a game, then? Ever heard of three truths and a lie?”

_ Huh. So that’s a thing, even here. _

“Fine. I’ll give you something to keep you awake. You first.”

“Right. I was born in Orzammar, I got Bianca here off a bargain bin in the Black Emporium, and I’ve never lost a game of ‘I spy’ with the Seeker.”

“Is it because she refuses to play in the first place?”

“Details.”

She has no idea what Orzammar is. It’s a reminder to get her hands on a map before someone realizes how woefully inadequate her general knowledge of this land is. To her great dismay, she’s stopped thinking of it in abstract terms, and instead as something wholly real.

_ Great. _

She eyes Varric skeptically. In the short time that she’s known him, one thing in particular seems to press at her mind as if in warning whenever they speak: ‘ _ storyteller.’ _ .

“I have a feeling all of those are lies. Isn’t that cheating?”

“You caught me. Your turn, Red.”

She huffs, with half the mind to deny him. Still, she feels as though she owes him a favor for the stew. It takes her a good few moments - some of which she draws out purely to watch in amusement as the anticipation builds in his eyes - before she speaks again.

“My middle name is Luciana, I’ve lived in the city most of my life, and my best friend’s name is Lumen.”

His brows furrow as if weighing his choices carefully. Unluckily for him, Sol finishes her stew just as he makes up his mind. Not that she ever had any intention of confirming or denying his selection in the first place. The thought settles with a rather smug expression on her part.

“Thanks for the food, Varric.”

By the time he finishes being indignant she’s already well away and out of sight, snickering to herself for good measure. She finds that with food in her belly, and a good laugh, her mood is much improved. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

_ Perhaps I spoke too soon. _

She turns to the voice which seems to be originating from around the corner of the shack that she’s hiding behind, quite sure that any more social interaction will send her promptly back to her own shack for some well-deserved solitude. 

“Oh. You’re...him,” she observes aptly, recognizing the bald mage as the other instructor that Cassandra had designated for her. The reminder is almost enough for her to excuse herself, suddenly paranoid that the Seeker had placed him here purposely. Yet, their meeting is… decisively less abrasive than her meeting with the Commander. Where Cullen is all might, and discipline, Solas presents himself in a ponderous way. The contrast between them is sharp, and she’s sure that he’s noticed her unabashed staring, though the intrigue in his gaze as he considers her in kind indicates that he does not quite know  _ what _ to think of it. Just as well.

“And you the newly appointed Herald of Andraste, here to save us all.”

She grimaces, choosing to ignore the last part of his quip, “Sol is fine. I’m guessing that Cassandra’s already filled you in on my situation.”

He nods knowingly, the twinkle of curiosity subdued but ever present as he regards her, “Indeed. I will have to make preparations. Though I sense that the delay will be a relief, rather than an inconvenience.”

“And  _ I  _ sense that you’re speaking from experience,” she returns, crossing her arms, “What did Cassandra call you? An apostate?”

_ Somehow, he doesn’t strike me as a religious person. _

“We all are, now,” he retorts enigmatically, and Sol has to bite her tongue to hide her ignorance. She thinks that he must be doing it purposely. 

She fidgets with her coat, tucking it more closely around herself, “Solas. I have a question, if you’ll indulge me.”

He seems surprised that she would venture to ask, probably due to how prickly she’s been. As she’d told Varric, she doesn’t trust any of them, but there is little alternative for her in this particular matter. 

“The magic. You feel it too, don’t you? The pull?”

He exhales deeply, as if it were a subject that he’d pondered many times, “Does it trouble you?”

She relents with a rare nod, peeling her gaze from where it’d been fixated on the shack across from them, and draws it instead to his aquiline features. 

“It will grow stronger,” he admits finally, though his expression is kind, “but so will you. I will not teach you to fear your gift, as the circle does. No, that would be a disservice. I will teach you to walk the fade, as I have, and  _ experience _ your potential.”

“Right,” she swallows, suddenly quite exhausted by the anticipation reflected in his blue-gray hues, “I think I hear Cassandra. I should jet.”

She thinks it’s becoming a theme, hurrying away from her instructors - or anyone else here, for that matter. It’s an oddly familiar action, one that she can call her own from a time before any of this happened. She’s so wrapped up in it, that she fails to catch the rather comical expression she’s left Solas with.

“What is a… jet?”


	3. Dependency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sol can look forward to getting out of Haven, and relationships change.
> 
> Or:
> 
> Solas is a bugger, Cullen is an addict, and Cassandra is just here for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Y'all where did the time go? Thank you for waiting, and the support of course! You're all lovely, and I hope that this chapter does you all justice. ]

If Solas is like water, then the Commander is like stone. One aims to bend, and the other to break, each so determined and stubborn in their ways that when Sol is caught in the crosshairs, she does not know under which she will fall. 

And Josephine, well, Josephine is the greatest evil of them all - second only to Leliana herself. The two ought to be one and the same, is what Sol thinks as she ducks behind a pillar adjacent to the chantry entrance, biting her lip to keep silent when the ambassador runs past carrying with her all manner of books and … accessories. 

“Lady Sol! You… you cannot hide from the court forever!” the bronze-skinned woman exclaims in a fit of frustration before composing herself and flushing at the scene which she’s caused. Suffice it to say, she does not brave the chill of Haven very long before hurrying back to her office. Sol releases the breath of mild laughter which she’d been holding, watching contently as it fans out in the cold. No sooner had she caught her breath, when out of the corner of her eye she spots a very familiar figure  peering at her from a frostbitten bench. He appears to have been reading before she’d intruded on his peace and quiet. Though by the look of his annoyingly condescending smirk, she does not think that he minds.

“Solas,” she starts flatly after assuring that none of the inner council are wandering about, “we really have to stop meeting like this.”

“If you would embrace their teachings as you have mine, perhaps that would be so.”

She scoffs, half in disbelief when her derisive reaction seems to draw a pleased glint to the slender man’s eyes, “I would sooner walk right back into the breach. Or worse, back into Josephine’s office. I don’t understand her obsession with … sterilizing everything.”

The redhead sinks into the vacant space beside him, hissing mildly when some of the cold seeps through her trousers. For whatever reason, Solas does not seem to have the same issue. She envies him. Her teacher takes a ponderous breath, long fingers cradling his chin as he takes to heart her question.

“Who can say why humans do anything? You should have been born elvhen. It is hard to imagine that you would not have been happier,” he appraises her with shamelessly, as if trying to envision her as such. More slender, delicate even and with those tapered ears characteristic of his kind. He imagines that she would have adorned them with gold, and sapphires if she could. The vision is an enticing one to the apostate, but in its stead Sol herself remains, cross-armed and keen. 

“I might not have any love for  _ my kind _ , but I won’t pretend to know every one of them. Just as you shouldn’t pretend that the  _ elvhen _ are so much better. I prefer the birds to both of you.”

And yet, Solas does not have the good graces to even attempt to appear properly chastised. If anything, he peers at her with pity. The pity of an elder witnessing the foolishness of a child, condemned to make the same mistakes of his youth. 

She bristles. 

“I don’t know why I thought you would be any different from anyone else. Good day, Solas.” The Herald does not grace him with her ear before jerking upright and taking brisk steps towards Haven proper. She does not catch Solas’ exasperated expression, nor does she see the way his gaze glimmers with unanswered intrigue. She is a very un-human human, indeed.

Sol happens upon Cassandra in her irritation, rolling her shoulders before poking the Seeker’s back to catch her attention.

“Do you have time?”

The Navarran woman turns slowly, and with a raised brow. Sweat drips from her brow attractively, her arms flexing of their own accord with the remnants of energy that Cassandra had meant to release onto the worn dummy before them.

“Want to hit something real instead of that sorry excuse for a man?”

Cassandra snorts, understanding all too well the way that Sol’s shoulders are hunched, tense and destructive. “Very well. What are your rules?”

Pleased, the Herald steps away from her, one leg sliding behind the other. “Anything goes. No weapons. No magic.”

The Seeker tosses her blade to the side, approval crossing her gaze fleetingly.

“Prepare yourself.”

And she does.

 

➻

 

It becomes a regular affair between them. For some reason or another, Sol always has excess energy to burn, and Cassandra is always content to oblige her. Soon enough, it becomes less of a necessity, and more of a roundabout way for the Herald to soothe the burn of being alone. The Seeker graciously pretends not to notice the way that their matches become shorter, ending in stalemates more and more often as the weeks pass them by. She also pretends not to notice the frustration on the part of both of Sol’s instructors at her preference to spend time with the Seeker rather than with practicing with them.

But really, what is there left to cover?

“You should speak with Cullen,” she starts, addressing the woman taping the side of her face to cover a bruise without peering up from her own task.

Sol snorts. The past few weeks had been a welcome reprieve for her. She had even been less insufferable to the Commander as a courtesy for his willingness to turn her over to the Seeker for a more suitable sparring partner, and coolly polite to Solas after their ideological disagreement. That, however, is not meant to be mistaken with her actually  _ enjoying  _ their company. She’s very reluctant to let old grievances lie. 

“Are you bored of exchanging bruises already?”

The Seeker rolls her eyes, accustomed to the Herald’s sharp remarks. 

“No. Now if you could only be quiet, I might be able to tell you. The situation in the Hinterlands is dire. We cannot wait any longer.” Cassandra hardly has time to finish her sentence before Sol is on her feet, grinning like the maniac she is at the prospect of  _ finally  _ leaving Haven.  _Surely, Lumen will be waiting for me there._

The Seeker narrows her eyes at the Sol’s excitement before sighing in a decidedly exasperated way and directing a finger towards the grouping of tents not far from their sparring grounds. “Go. I have already spoken to Solas on your behalf.”

“You know, Cassandra. If we were ever overrun by demons again, I would save you first.”

The Seeker guffaws, shaking her head as she watches Sol make her way towards her task. She does not think that the Commander has yet garnered such favor with their resident redhead. Maker knows what  _ she _ did to earn it, aside from providing a convenient - if difficult - punching bag. With lack of anything to do before the yelling begins, she draws her boot-knife and sets about sharpening it. 

Sol, however is not so at ease. She’d advanced to the Commander’s tent with full confidence, but just as she’d lifted her hand to brush its flaps aside, she found herself… stumped. The Herald puckers her lips briefly, irritated with herself, and straightens her back until she feels it pop. Resolve strengthened, her steps announce her presence… then falter with the sight within.

Cullen does not appear well. He does not seem to have even registered her company, his labored breaths filling the space between them icily. His hands - so much larger than her own - are cupped over his brow as if trying to stifle a troublesome headache. Finally, Sol glances about, almost wishing that Cassandra had accompanied her as she hovers over his desk.

“Commander,” she probes, a tentative hand reaching to poke his shoulder. She regrets her kindness immediately, when his own moves with a quickness that she did not know he could possess in his current state, and grasps her wrist before she can even touch him. Sol catches a growl that sounds distinctly like ‘no,’ but she’s too occupied trying to jerk away from him to linger on it. “Not. A good. Time. I got it, fuck off,” she grits out, plastering her other palm over his forehead in an attempt to separate them without resorting to magic. All she really accomplishes is tipping them both back, her into the dirt, and him onto the rug under his desk. 

Sol hears him groan and does not pity him, merely glaring at the spot obscured by his desk. “You’re a real fucking cunt, you know that!”

“Maker’s breath,” he’s mortified - she can hear it on his tongue. He lingers beyond cover only as long as it takes for him to regain his wits, his mantle askew when he rounds it to peer at her, cherry-faced. “Did I--”

“Give us both a good knocking, yeah. Ass.”

She’s irate, her boot reaching out with full intent to meet his shin. Unfortunately, she’s a tad short for that. Instead, she refuses his hand when he offers it, and rolls to her feet on her own. Balance regained, she stomps a short distance to the Commander and pokes a finger right onto the center of his chest brusquely. Cassandra would have been proud. 

“Listen here. I don’t know who pissed in your damn cereal this morning, and I don’t care. I need something, and I’m ready to be civil about it,” she huffs, “get laid already, Commander. I’m sure it would help your perpetually awful mood.”

His lips press into a flustered line, thoroughly abashed by their… rather unfortunate interaction. 

“I … apologize. You were not meant to see that. You really do have dreadful timing.”

She snorts, crossing her arms, “I’ve been told. Look, I’m not going to pry into what that was all about, because frankly it’s none of my business, but you should get help if you’re sick.”

He sighs, no doubt wishing that it were so easy, “What do you know about templars?”

She shifts uncomfortably, “Not much, aside from the fact that they hate me, and I hate them. It’s a good balance.”

“We don’t--,” Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose, his head still pounding.  _ That argument is for another day. _ “The reason that we have the power that we do over mage-kind is because we ingest lyrium when we take our vows… of  _ protection _ , I’ll add. We continue drinking, over the course of our service because the consequences of doing otherwise are fatal. Do you understand?”

Sol frowns, and it’s slight at first as she tries to decipher what his eyes so desperately ask her to not make him say. 

Finally, and with a thoroughly alarmed expression, “You’re an addict.”

His brows mirror her own, one hand clenched over the side of his desk - for support, she realizes. “I am  _ trying  _ not to be.”

“Oh,” she breathes, rubbing a hand over her brow as a headache of her own begins to bloom. “That explains a lot. If you’re trying to kill yourself, there are easier ways.”

He almost looks offended, but Sol feels as though the relief between them is almost palpable. To his credit, his honesty had allowed her to salvage the modicum of respect she possesses for him - enough to start anew, at least, and with a fresh perspective. 

“Let’s try this again,” she sighs, extending her hand to him with a neutral expression, “Sol Luciana Castello. You’re still a prick, but I’m tired of fighting. And I would rather not let anyone struggle alone. I’ve had bad experiences with it - don’t ask, I won’t tell you.”

Cullen thinks that her form of an apology is… certainly interesting, almost as interesting as the fact that they’d been at each other’s throats just the other day, and now they resemble something like acquaintances. Still, the Commander cannot help but be grateful for the opportunity. Cassandra seems to have done a fine job of softening the redhead’s edges somewhat. 

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” he returns, with a proper shake of his own. He then clears his throat, “You needed something?”

“Right. Cassandra needs to go-ahead before we can leave for the Hinterlands.”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. Try as he might to deny it, the Herald has grown - if not in trust and comfort, then in strength and fortitude in order to shield herself from the denizens of Haven. He knows that she is ill at ease inside what’s grown to be a small town, and while he does not begrudge her for it… part of him hopes that her eyes will soon stop reflecting that which all mages feel when being confined to the Circle for the first time.

“Alright. Don’t make a fool of yourself out there. The Inquisition needs you.”

And all Sol does is roll her eyes, turning on her heel before casting a glance at the Commander over her shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get ahead of yourself.  _ Adios,  _ Commander.”

She’s gone, and Cullen is not sure if he’s more filled with relief, or dread with the Herald’s newfound knowledge. The smile hidden behind the palm of his hand decides for him, and he concludes that time without her is just what he needs.

_ Maker’s breath. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Psst! Reviews make the writing fairy happy <3 ]


	4. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lady Herald experiences despair and happiness in equal parts.
> 
> Or:
> 
> She's whole again, Cassandra is disgusted, and someone is getting extra treats tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I didn't die. For the most part. Happy New Year, lovelies! I have something else in the works for you all <3 ]

Cassandra shields her from the worst of it, but try as she might the Navarran woman cannot stop the bellied screams of their enemies from reaching her ears, nor can she command the stench of iron and scorched flesh away from Sol’s nose. It’s pungent, and it burns her nose in a way that filters the taste into her mouth but amidst her pitiful retching, all the Herald can do is mourn another piece of civility, of home and principle torn away from her by forces beyond her understanding. Now, not only is she alone… but she is a murderer as well. 

It matters not. Giselle is waiting, the refugees of the Crossroads are watching, and she must force herself to spit the last of the sick from her mouth in hopes that it will not offend the Revered Mother’s delicate sensitivities. Not that it does her much good; she finds that neither mint or elfroot has been able to wash her tongue of the bitter taste this place imparts on her. The sentiment had been offered by Varric however, who she now registers to be telling her to breathe, perhaps trying to stall her by reaching a hand towards her shoulder, but she will have none of it.

“Posturing is necessary,” Solas had told her. Ordinarily she would challenge the need to put on airs, but in light of her current circumstances, his words comfort her and give her the direction she so sorely lacks. So she gathers herself, wipes her damp palms on her trousers, and tries for a suitable expression for the Revered Mother. It… comes out looking like more of a scowl, but she hopes that Giselle will understand.

And she does. She welcomes the Herald with open arms and soft words, leading her away from her flock to find reprieve. Sol could almost weep with the familiarity of the situation; Giselle is like a nun she had known once, wise and kind and motherly in a way that only a woman of her stature could be.

“The people, they look to you for answers as to why the Maker has scorned them with this war. They ask: could she be the true voice of Andraste, here to shepherd the faithful away from the darkness? Or could she be the very darkness that they yearn to escape? Yet, I sense that you yourself do not possess the knowledge they seek.”

“How could I?” Sol retorts, half pleading and half angry. She realizes, between breaths, that this is how Josephine must feel when she filters through the muck that is politics and suddenly becomes much more sympathtic to her frustrations with their ‘unruly’ Herald. She adds however, “I wasn’t sent by this ‘Andraste,’ or anyone else for that matter. I’m as much a victim as all of you.”

“A victim placed in the center of all this, for a  _ reason _ . The Maker works in mysterious ways, Herald. This is something many of my sisters have forgotten, in their grief. But not I. I see you for what you are: a light in the darkness, like many heroes before you.”

The conversation does not last long beyond that. Giselle imparts her advice regarding Val Royeaux, and Sol escapes her knowing gaze with her companions, disquieted and restless. They make camp soon after, at the edge of a lake south of the Crossroads under pretenses of regrouping to plan their next move now that the Revered Mother has been directed to Haven. 

And for the most part, that is true. Sol announces that she’ll be happy to let Cassandra take the reins of their operation, leaving the warrioress exasperated with her newfound passiveness. But she does not have the heart to call the desert dweller back once she wanders from the group to sit at the edge of the pier, her chin perched atop one propped knee. Scarcely an hour passes before a creak announces Varric’s presence behind her, and for a few tense moments before he steps into view, she is afraid that she won’t have Cassandra to hide behind should his presence be unfriendly. The frost that clings to Varric’s boots is proof enough of that. She can almost hear Solas clicking his tongue in the background.

‘ _ Control.’ _

After all, it is not demons that she fears the most. It is the capability for cruelty within herself and her fellow man. 

“You look like shit, kid.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Varric.”

He settles beside her with a faint grunt, and squints out into the lake rather than looking directly at her. Probably to make her feel more at ease, she realizes.

“It’s not hard to tell when you’re bothered, Red. After the Crossroads… well, it was like looking at rust instead of a fire.”

She scoffs, “I suppose I’m less entertaining when I’m puking instead of punching a hole through something. Sorry to disappoint, really.”

He frowns, “That’s a load of horseshit and you know it. Point is, you’re a bit late to the party. It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long without getting blood on your hands. But for your sake, I hope that it never gets easier.”

“How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s not. You start to forget that we’ve playing with lives here, and the world goes to shit. Exhibit A,” he points to the sky dryly, drawing her gaze back to the very thing she’d been trying to avoid.

“If it never gets easier, how am I supposed to close  _ that _ ? I doubt the templars and mages are going to roll over and offer support if I  _ ask nicely _ .”

“Hell if I know,” Varric offers unhelpfully, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m just as much a dwarf as you are a human with astoundingly bad luck. People like us aren’t meant to get those sort of answers. Now get some rest, before Cassandra drags us both by the ear.”

With that, he pats her shoulder despite the half-hearted frown that she directs his way and meanders on back to the tents, presumably to get some rest of his own. Sol sighs, and curls into herself at the edge of the dock without bothering to watch after him, clinging to the fur-lined coat that  Harritt had fashioned for her. 

_ Maybe I'll drown in my sleep, and wake up at home. Maybe then, everything will make sense. _

  
  


Sol could almost believe that that is what had transpired in the night, when she wakes in darkness, further from the sound of running water than she remembers being when she’d finally been able to rest her head in some semblance of peace. But that is before Cassandra sticks her head past the flaps of her tent, and raises one of her infuriatingly angular brows.

So her day begins. And a day soon blends into three, then a week, and soon Sol has lost track of how long they have been fighting. She soon loses track of  _ why _ . She spends more time staring at the sky with tired eyes than she does complaining to the others now, wondering why she couldn’t have been murdered at the Temple alongside the Divine if the alternative is to aspire to some… impossible destiny. 

“You dreams have been troubled as of late _.  _ I fear that they are beginning to leak beyond the fade to shadow your waking hours,” Solas points out to her while on their way North of the Horsemaster’s holdings.

His observation is received about as well as one would expect, “And why would you know of  _ my _ dreams, pray tell? I don’t remember leaving any sort of dream diary lying about.”

“You are my student, and the only hope we have of closing the Breach. Is it not natural for me to look after your well-being in ways that our other companions could not?”

“So you’ve been… no, let me get this straight. You  _ decided _ , without even  _ asking  _ that it’s a good idea to rummage around in my head while I sleep? Is that right?”

“I would have thought you more disquieted to see my presence in your dreams, so I decided on a more subtle approach,” he explains, non-pulsed, and lofts a brow at her, “would you have accepted my help, were it not laid across your lap first?”

She says nothing in return, yet she can still feel the smugness radiating from her side as they walk. Behind them, Cassandra and Varric exchange shrugs, chalking it up to the usual bit of banter and tension that passes between the two mages on the daily. Solas seems to enjoy both soothing her, and antagonizing her in the same breath. So the Herald gives him her best glare, makes a show of raising her shoulders as if such a thing would make her appear bigger, and trots up the hill at a pace fast enough to have Cassandra calling after her. 

As fate would have it, the Seeker does not have to chase long before she finds Sol, all irritation shed from her features in favor of harboring a more somber expression, her untouched hand cupping over the wrist of the other. They’ve reached the mouth of the den and already she can sense feeling returning to the tips of her fingers, pricklingly and with the promise of trouble. 

“There’s at least one demon in there, if not another rift,” Sol cautions quietly, as if afraid that the creature inside might hear her.

She needn’t have whispered, for mere moments later the area is engulfed in echoing howls, and wolves pour like locusts from the darkness. Soon, they have no choice but to retreat into the den itself, cornered from all other sides by red eyes and snapping jaws. To Sol, this is only slightly less horrifying than dueling with her own kind. 

And only slightly less horrifying than that, is the all-too familiar sensation of talons curling around her ankles in the sparse moments before she’s on the ground, disoriented and surrounded by the stench of metal. Of fear, dripping like acid from the great and terrible maw of the demon curled over her sickly, all thorns and deafening screeches. She thinks that she can hear Solas shouting something over the howling as her chest heaves with panic - and with a wave of calm she remembers herself and does exactly as everyone had told her not to do. She shoves her fist, swathed in frost and the beginnings of flame, right into the gullet of the creature trying to consume her. Its screeching rises in pitch and then crackles menacingly as she forces her way forward, ignoring the pain engulfing her arm from its sharklike teeth. Soon, its movements begin to become uncontrollable and panicked as she sets it aflame from the inside, but the wolves do not go so quietly into the night and rise viciously to defend their master. Cassandra can hardly keep them at bay while Varric loads Bianca as fast as he can and Solas works to delay and protect. 

With the demon incapacitated and its underlings frenzied, it does not take long for the group to synergize and make quick work of the lot of them. Though, Cassandra shoves her back when she - still running on adrenaline from the demon - attempts to engage the wolves in much the same manner as she had their master. All, except one. 

A runt crouches a short distance from them, hackles raised and teeth bared not from the influence of the demon but rather from the group of unfamiliar people in even more unfamiliar lands. However, before Varric can put a bolt in it it’s upon them - upon  _ her _ with a keen that deafens her and a scent that brings moisture to her eyes unbidden before she realizes that her companions might not perceive the scene as she does.

“Don’t hurt him!” she cries, rolling over the mutt as though she is fully prepared to endure his punishment in his stead, well-intentioned as it may be. And while the others breath a collective sigh of relief, it is tempered with disbelief as Sol, who has never been anything short of hostile, is suddenly a bumbling mess covered in dirt from rolling about the blood-soaked ground with a  _ dog. _ Cassandra makes a disgusted noise.

“Lumen,” Sol croons, once she’s caught enough breath to speak again. Of course he would come, of course he would find her when she is running on fumes, desperate for some semblance of home. And here he is, as big as she remembers with an auburn coat so bright that it rivals her hair - something that Varric would point out gleefully later. “ _ ¿Me extrañaste? _ ”

He barks his response and nips her chin, then turns his gaze to her odd assortment of companions as if to ask, ‘ _ who the hell are these clowns?’ _

Solas looks personally offended, as if the mutt had voiced his feelings aloud. It’s only there for a moment, but it’s enough to bring a certain sort of smugness to Sol’s features. At least for these brief few moments, even surrounded by death and demons dispatched by her own hand, she can forget the suffering of this world and indulge herself selfishly. 

Alas, Cassandra makes another noise and flicks a piece of fur off of her armor before reminding none-too-gently that there  _ is  _ still work to be done. For once, Sol does not protest.

“Try to keep up then, if you can,” she sticks her tongue out at the Seeker and ignores her protests when the pair bound out of the darkness of the den, and back into the warmth of the  Hinterlands.

If he had known the meaning of her name, Solas would have thought that she very much lives up to it then, vibrant and blinding as she is in the sunlight with unveiled mirth lining her lips, and creasing her eyes. How fitting, he thinks, that she should chose such a creature for her companion.

Sol does not notice it then, but for the briefest of moments Lumen’s gaze is directed back to the apostate, and an unspoken understanding passes between them.

  
  



	5. A Dwarf, A Human, and an Elf Walk Into a Bar...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sol swallows her pride after realizing that she can't read any more than she can do a double back-flip, and miscellaneous shenanigans take place.
> 
> OR:
> 
> When the Herald is happy, everyone is happy. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Well, this wrote itself. Fan-service to myself, because doom and gloom isn't as fun when it isn't balanced out with a lil bit of wholesomeness. Thank you all for your support <3 ]

At some point, she asks Varric to write a letter for her and he smirks indulgently, asking if perhaps she’s passing a message along to someone she’d forgotten at home. He doesn’t specify whether he means Haven or elsewhere, which she’s sure is done with purpose, but she merely shrugs the question off with a roll of her eyes. Sol isn’t entirely sure why the inquiry makes her uncomfortable, but she thinks that it has something to do with the distinct possibility of Cassandra lobbing her head off for lying to… well, everyone. She’s only just begun to settle, and the thought of being thrown back into utter chaos does not sit well with her, even with Lumen at her side. Though she wonders, as she often does, if such a thing would bring her back to her  _ true  _ home - somehow.

Nevertheless, Varric does not refuse the chance to find something to tease her about, and she assures him brightly that she’s not responsible for a slip of her pup’s maw should the dwarf abuse his permissions. Yet all he does is chuckle at her in response, perhaps a bit too knowingly for her liking, and go about gathering his writing implements. Sol is certain that he either sees right through her, or worse yet, thinks that this is some sort of…. roundabout way of seeking his friendship. Which is worse. Much worse. So it begins:

_ Commander, _

_ I haven’t died yet. Hope you like dogs. Dennet agreed to send horses if we build towers. Unfortunately, I’m not much of an architect. Please advise. _

 

  * __Sol… No, should I sign it ‘Herald?’ Is that too formal? Are you writing this? Damn it, Varric.__



 

 

She wishes that she could read over what Varric had written, to be sure that he hasn’t inserted anything embarrassing for his own amusement. And then twicefold, to be sure that he hasn’t edited anything out of Cullen’s response.

 

_ Herald, _

_ The Inquisition’s best will be arriving soon with tools for the job. Regardless… I should have known that you would get your hands on a mabari. Why is Varric writing your letters? _

 

  * __Cullen__



 

 

“What the hell is a mabari?”

“You owe me five royals, Seeker. She’s definitely not Ferelden.”

“Ugh.”

Sol feels as though she should be offended by the exchange. She doesn’t know when reading her letters became a camp activity for the lot of them, but she hadn’t meant to put anything overly personal in them anyway so she supposes that she doesn’t mind. It’s not as if she can protest, given that this is one skill she  _ doesn’t _ have.

_...Cullen, _

_ I lost a bet… of sorts, because of you. I don’t get it, but it keeps these goons happy so I’m not complaining. Sidenote:  tell Leliana’s people not to shoot a runty-looking wolf dog on sight if one wanders into Haven. He’s my friend, and I will mutiny if you hurt him.  _

_ Also, I need a favor. I would prefer not to speak of it here.  _ _ Varric is practically foaming at the mouth trying to figure it out-- _

 

  * __Sol__



 

 

Somewhere in Haven, Cullen agonizes over whether to address her by her name or her title. Speaking with her in person is a substantially less awkward affair, he thinks - he never was very good at writing personal letters. 

 

_ Herald, _

_ Noted. I asked our ambassador to translate for me and she said that that is the most horrific dialect of Rivaini that she has ever had the displeasure of reading. She would have words with you. I might be willing to hide you, in exchange for some quiet and a snack. If you can manage it. _

 

  * __Cullen__



 

 

_ P.S. Does the name Isabella sound familiar? _

 

  * __Nightingale__



 

 

Somewhere in the Hinterlands, Sol decides that she  _ would _ have words with the Ambassador to remind her of who it is that toils in the wilderness every day for people who will never thank her.

“I don’t expect people to fall at my feet,” she’d told Varric in response to an off-handed question about her feelings towards the Inquisition, “but I do expect them to shut the hell up and let me do my job.”

 

**_Cullen._ ** _ And Leliana too, I guess, because you read everyone’s mail like a mail vulture, _

_ Tell Josephine that clearly, my native tongue is too sophisticated for her and she needn’t bother straining her eyes with it. And before any of you ask, no I do not remember anything that happened at the Temple of Ashy Andraste or whatever. Don’t look at me like that, Cassandra. Anything I remember is personal, and I will not be sharing it for the Inquisition’s gain any time soon. Don’t test me on this. _

_ To the mail vulture: read the sentence above. 2x, just for you. ♥ _

 

  * __Sol__



 

_ P.S. You’re on, Commander. Sneezing doesn’t count. _

_ P.P.S. We’re going to need cages to separate those three. You should’ve seen her face when I read this to her. Priceless. _

 

  * __Varric__



 

_ P.P.P.S. Cullen. I’m surrounded by children. I am going to need a drink upon our return. Urgently. _

 

  * __Cassandra__



 

“I don’t think that we’re thinking about the same Isabella, Red.”

“We’re definitely not thinking about the same Isabella. Come on. It’s a long way to Haven, and I’m dying to ask Cullen what you lot put in the footnotes. Especially you, Lady Seeker,” she squints, then wiggles her brow at the Navarran. For all she knows, she and Cullen have some sort of… thing, going on. They suit each other, she thinks. 

She’s sure that if she bothered to ask, Solas would recite the content of the footnotes for her. But she’s not feeling  _ that _ generous. Part of her enjoys antagonizing him when she can, and this is no different. Especially now that the initial giddiness surrounding Lumen’s return has faded into something soft, and mischievous. 

On the way back, she asks Cassandra if she’d stopped moving Sol into her tent because she was afraid of being bitten by Lumen. The Seeker peers at her as if she’s grown a second head, and Sol squints, glancing at the other two in the party that seem to be wearing suspiciously amused - guilty! - smirks.

She is not pleased. Lumen chortles behind them, and sniffs Varric’s pocket in search of treats before wandering into the sparse forest, tired of their company. 

“I sympathize,” Sol sighs, watching him go where her mount cannot follow with some measure of envy. Almost there, she thinks, as though Haven would provide any sort of respite from the duties thrust upon her.

 

***

 

As it happens, her wishes are granted… after a fashion.

Haven itself is much the same when they return, if more well-put together and fortified. It’s also just about brimming with people who don’t bother to hide their  _ oh _ ’s and  _ ah _ ’s when the party filters through the gates, exhausted both from the road and each other’s constant company. At least, that’s the case for the Herald. 

She loathes them all - the people who would have her head on a pike before listening to a single word she’d had to say, the people who focus on  _ her  _ instead of the tear in the sky for the sake of having something to blame, and the people who see her and expect their problems to vanish in her wake. Then when they remain, she’s to blame nonetheless. It leaves a bad taste in her mouth and she almost considers walking back out into the snow if not for the reason that she’d returned in the first place.

True to his word, the Commander offers her shelter from the throngs of people and paperwork waiting to meet her with the pretense of having ‘official Inquisition business’ to take care of. Really, she’s just slumped over a chair that he’d dragged into his tent for that very purpose while Lumen appraises him, sniffing noisily over his coat. Cullen says nothing for some time, his gaze flitting between the Herald’s close-eyed expression and Lumen, who would have given him a shock if not for Sol’s forewarning.

“How are your headaches?” she inquires, unexpectedly, and he rubs his neck in return. The other hand strays close to the pup’s ears, and kneads the fur between it once Lumen pushes his head into it impatiently.

“Manageable,” he admits, avoiding her gaze for the moment - it isn’t a very difficult affair, considering she doesn’t look amenable to…  _ looking _ at anything, any time soon. But the threat is there. 

Then a hand is in his face and he has to blink away his surprise, because the Herald seems to have overcome her spell of exhaustion to peer at him with pressed lips. 

“What-”

“Blue lotus, feverfew, devil’s claw and some elfroot because I hear that’s the thing to give to people when they’re ailing. Solas has been reading healer’s notes to me, and I figured you would make a good guinea pig,” she explains quickly as if embarrassed, and pushes the bundle of crushed leaves into his hands, “it’s going to taste like shit, just so you know. Knocks me out like no one’s business though. No dreams.”

“Herald-”

“No need to thank me!” she exclaims, sitting back in her chair now that Lumen has wandered to her side to rest his head atop her lap. “I’m about to ask something annoying of you, anyway. With that sorry excuse for a snack...”

His brow furrows, half torn between hearing her out and demanding an explanation for her… suspiciously charitable mood. He has no doubt that the pup, whose wise eyes gleam at him even now, has something to do with it. 

Ultimately, he relents with a sigh, “I have a feeling that I’m going to regret this.”

“No more than I am,” she assures half-heartedly, fiddling with her hands, “If you laugh, I’m going to let him eat you in your sleep. I mean it. There is no way I can ask Solas for help with this, nevermind Josephine - before you suggest her. Varric would hold it over my head forever and Cassandra… is… Cassandra. That leaves you. I can’t read, and that’s a problem. So I was hoping you could… you know.  _ You know.  _ I don’t need a lot. Just the… alphabet on a piece of paper or something. That’s all I ask.”

She waves her hands for emphasis, and Cullen chokes on a laugh. He can’t help it, and he feels terrible when he catches her expression - betrayal! - but he raises a hand to keep her from storming off then and there. She’s just so  _ awkward _ now that she’s started prowling about like she’s less on-edge that he feels foolish for having worried about this conversation in the first place.

“Maker’s breath, this played out a lot differently in my head. Right. Of course. You’re certain that the apostate will not help you?”

“Oh, no. I’m certain that he would be absolutely delighted to hear the sound of his own voice and correct my pronunciation whenever possible. Which is exactly why I can’t ask him. He’s like Varric…. with more of a complex.”

The Commander seems amused by her assessment, “Your pride will be the death of you one day. I suppose if it cannot be helped…”

She breathes a sigh of relief - and then foreboding.  _ God, what have I gotten myself into, _ she thinks irately - adding,  _ well, I can’t stay inept forever. _

“How long do you intend on staying in Haven?”

“Not sure. Honestly, I thought you’d reject my proposal and send me to Josephine. Then I’d  _ really _ be in trouble. She tried to put me in a dress the other day.  _ A dress. _ In this weather! Something about a game, or some other nonsense.”

_ I am sure you would look lovely in it, _ his eyes read as they drink in her appearance as subtly as he can manage, embarrassed by his own lack of self restraint. But how could he not? She is difficult to ignore, with her loud presence and her foul temper, and her obnoxious red hair.

“Yes, well,” he starts, clearing his throat, “if there is anything you and I have in common, it is our distaste for The Game. When would you like to begin?”

“Time is of the essence, they say. I need to go back once Harding has word about some sort of castle in the woods. Hell if I know what that’s about, but Cassandra says it’s important.”

“Right,” he says, wondering how he’d gotten himself into this position. But, it’s a far cry from the Herald’s first few weeks in Haven, and he is not… adverse to the change. 

The quirk of her lips tells him that maybe, she agrees. 


	6. Sol and the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blackwall joins the team, and shenanigans ensue.
> 
> OR:
> 
> Everyone is on Sol's ass about being reckless, and she decides to prove them wrong by.... being reckless! It's foolproof. She swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I've been MIA, I know. But I've some ideas, darlings! Read on, and let me know what you think! I'm trying not to focus in on the ships too much since it is a bit of a slow burn, but it's so haaard. ]

They meet Blackwall in a marsh nearly as bleak as his name. Sol finds that she has nothing particularly good to say about it - not its deceptively deep waters, or its incessant rain. No, she thinks. This is the most miserable place on earth. And that’s without weighing in the _corpses_ that meander out of its murky depths without the slightest provocation.

But if there is one thing to give credit to, it’s the warden making polite conversation with Cassandra beside her. She thinks that it is a fitting word for him: _polite._ Not in the sugar-sweet way that Josephine is, but rather, just-so. Ordinary. Which is entirely out of place in the sopping pigsty that is the Fallow Mire, but she thinks that she might like it either way; it reminds her of some of the not-quite-old men she’d known back… home.

Yet, neither Solas or Lumen seem taken with him and so she resolves to be cautious, though it does rouse the forcibly repressed ghosts of homesickness that she’d avoided addressing so far.

“You’re not pleased?” she remarks amusedly to the former, smoothing her hands over the bladed staff that had been fashioned for her. For safety, Cassandra had said, followed by a lengthy sigh of relief from just about everyone in Haven. She, however, had not been as enthused.

Solas regards her thinly, “You have invited a fool into your circle without care for the consequences. Your impulsiveness knows no bounds.”

The Herald rolls her eyes habitually, her nostrils flaring in response to his arrogance, “And you, the authority on all things will now explain in great detail _why_ I’m wrong. Right? All you and Cassandra do is harp on about how reckless I am. If you’ve forgotten, everything here is _trying to kill me._ For no good reason, might I add.”

She shucks a rock into the blackened waters and shudders when air bubbles rise, with no further reprecussions.

He elects to ignore her tirade,  and remark tartly instead, “You would you do as you like regardless.”

“Right,” she says with satisfaction, “but for once, the pup agrees with you. And _he_ is an excellent judge of character. It makes me wonder why he’s saddled up to you, of all people.”

Solas smirks at her observation, extending the tips of his fingers to the space behind Lumen’s ears almost affectionately.

“He clearly has good taste. It is a shame that you do not share it.”

She wrinkles her nose, “Fine, stay with him if you’re so friendly. You’ll rue the day, you pair of traitors. I have new friends. _Real_ friends.”

It’s directed mostly towards the tongue-lolling hound between them, but Sol takes care to stick her own out at the elf peering at her with that incessant smirk off his. She hadn’t really meant to call them friends, but it’s the first thing that came to mind. Even so, she meanders over and between the the two warriors, slinging her arms around their shoulders for good measure.

“Act natural. I’m annoying the walking encyclopedia and his new sidekick.”

“Ugh. Must I participate in your childish games?”

“This is not a game,” Sol sniffs, “this is war, Lady Seeker. And you two are my secret weapons.”

She thinks that she can see Blackwall’s beard twitching to her right, accompanied by a lofty quirk of his brows.

“May we serve you well then, Inquisition.”

“We’ll see about that.”

  
  


Meanwhile, Blackwall muses that the Inquisition is not nearly as dull an affair as he had been led to believe. Andraste’s champion fumbles in the mud like the rest of them at the very least, unlike many of the so-called Chevaliers plaguing Orlais with all splendor and no might. Unlike him, when the name ‘Blackwall’ was still in its infancy some odd years ago.

Yet the first thing that he learns, is that the tales of the Herald in comparison to her actual bearing leave much to be desired.

So it goes.

“Would you like to enlighten me as to what you were doing in this shithole, or should I keep thinking of increasingly unpleasant reasons?” are amongst the first real words that Sol speaks in his direction after their accidental meeting some odd hours ago, after they’ve traversed the islands enough to stop for rest.

He considers her, then her companions. The elf, who busies himself with examining the strange script written in fire in the middle of the island. The other warrioress, who seems to think it an apt time to clean what she can from her arms and armor. And the dwarf, who seems occupied just with hauling the slain undead into a neat pile far enough that he won’t have to endure their stench once he’s finished his task.

Sol has certainly picked an opportune time to corner him, if there was any. She wouldn’t want it to look like she’s actually _socializing_ for something other than necessity.

“I should very much like to know the same, m’lady. This hardly seems the ideal place to build a stronghold.”

“Agreed,” she sighs, grumpily, “I can practically feel my soul shriveling the longer we hang around. But, I believe I asked first.”

He chuckles, weighing the merits of answering her truthfully. In the end, there’s something earnest in her gaze that he finds respect for, and so he says, “I thought that I could do some good for the people here. Recruit them, give them purpose with the Wardens. All this demon business, I figured these poor sods would be hit the worst.”

“Altruism, then? Seems too good to be true.”

He exhales sharply, in an intrigued manner, “I would trade a life mongering rotten fish for a life of service without a thought. Would it be right to not offer the choice?”

“It depends on who you ask,” she replies, after a fashion.

“I’m asking you, Inquisition.”

Sol grimaces, “Then I would say that it depends on _how_ you ask. But Sol is fine, unless you want to dance around with _Warden_ and _Inquisition_ all day. Fun as that sounds, it’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“Sol, then.”

“Blackwall.”

“Herald,” comes a lilting voice from her left, interrupting what was quickly becoming a very one-sided stare down, “I believe that Varric has found something of interest.”

“Handy,” she sighs, brushing her hands over her trousers absently. She nods politely in Blackwall’s direction and leaves them both to trail after Varric, who seems to be poking his newly completed pile of corpses with the tip of his boot.

“Solas said that you hit the jackpot over here. Is it treasure? Please say it’s treasure. I don’t think I can handle any more weird shit. Ghost fire is weird enough.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Red, but all we ever get is weird shit. At least I get paid.”

They share an exasperated look as Varric hands her a soggy journal expectantly. She begins leafing through it, slowly for her lack of practice. Her correspondence with Cullen has screeched to a disappointing halt ever since she’s stepped foot on this miserable place, and so she’s been left to her own devices. Fleetingly, she wonders if he’s been drinking the horrid tea she’d bribed him with.

 

‘ _My name is Wildris._

_And I have done something brilliant and terrible._

_They cannot find me. They will not find me. I am smarter. I am better. They are too weak_

_to understand. But I am better. I am clever. Iamclever.Iamclever.Iamclever._

_These demons_

_Are clever. And I_

_Will bE_

_tOO’_

 

The rest of it is garbled, blurred, torn or all of the above. It becomes clear to her over the course of several more pages that this ‘Wildris’ person is one of the unfortunate few to have escaped the Circles before the rebellion erupted.

With her lips pressed together in a troubled way, she begins, hushed, “I’m going to propose something crazy.”

“Red,” he says both approvingly and warningly, glancing over her hip at the other three, still occupied with their own brand of shenanigans.

“There’s someone out there, probably hiding in a damp cave, delirious from hunger and fear of templars that will never come. Cassandra and the new guy will never agree to this. And I’m willing to bet money that the egghead will tell on us if we try to get him in on it.”

He snorts, “I’m not liking the sound of this.”

She shushes him, continuing, “If this thing is as old as it looks, then there’ll be no problem even if they’re demented. Are you telling me that you can’t handle a half-dead apostate and their half-rate demons, Varric? And here I thought so highly of you.”

She sniffs derisively, though she’s inwardly pleased when the rare praise is received with a defeated huff.

“ _Those_ are the most dangerous apostates. You should know, you act half-dead whenever we fight anything. I don’t suppose you have this particular apostate’s phylactery on you?”

“I don’t know what that is, but I have an idea.”

  
  


It’s a horrible idea. A terrible, no good, _very bad_ idea. She realizes this as she and Varric hide behind boulders adjacent to each other, listening to the screeching of the half-dead apostate that they’d meant to rescue. Sol finds that Varric is surprisingly agile for such a stocky man when he’s pressed to be, and she has developed a much higher pain tolerance than she’d landed in Thedas with in the first place.

“Any more brilliant ideas?!” he stage-whispers, listening for the prowling of Shades while eyeing the only exit to Wildris’s clearing warily; it’s a fair run past her camp, and past those demons that she’d summoned.

The Herald pants to his right, following his line of sight to settle instead on the withering apostate surrounded by her own hungry demons. Her arm tingles from the magic, and her wounds sting, but it makes her feel alive. She’s glad that she’d sent Lumen back off to camp once he’d led them far enough. Sol thinks that she just might be turning into a bit of an adrenaline junkie.

“How many do you think you can hit at once?”

Varric eyes her skeptically, “Two, three maybe if the bastards don’t jerk around too much Wh--”

“I have an idea,” she says, and without further delay, sprints past the corner of her boulder and into view of the pack. Varric hisses at her, practically seeing his life flash before his eyes when he imagines telling Cassandra about how he let their one and only hope run into a throng of demons _for shits and giggles._

Sol, meanwhile, is just about sure that she’s going to piss herself at any moment now.

“Just like we practiced,” she breathes, narrowly avoiding one of the demons felled by Varric’s cover fire as the distance between her and safety grows, “it’s easy - it’s easy - it’s -   _I really should have paid more attention to that stupid egghead!_ ”

But there is no time for deliberation or hesitation. She summons what magic she left mid-stride, thinking, focusing -

_‘Think of a barrier,’_ Solas had said to her, _‘you need only bend it to your purpose. It can be unyielding… or fluid, like air. Nurturing, or volatile. Like so-”_

Like so.

The air is cold around her in her next step, and the demons in all directions seem lethargic, sluggish. And then she realizes that _she_ is the one displaced in time, stepping through something cold and fluid so fast that her mind has to do mental gymnastics to catch up. In one instant she is several meters from the safety of the boulders, and the next she is tripping on top of Wildris, disorienting them both. The return to reality is so disarming that she nearly forgets what she’s doing, suddenly feeling very drained. And when her nose begins to feel muggy, and wet, she knows that she’s given herself a nose bleed out of exertion.

Yet even now, there is not time to ponder it. The demons shriek one singular, terrible noise and descend upon her but only one stray truly makes it there, clawing feebly enough to spare her back from more damage than more shallow gashes and shredded leather. Wildris, however, falls unconscious in the time that it takes for Varric to load another bolt and do away with the filth.

Sol very much thinks that she would like to do follow Wildris’s lead, slumping over the woman’s shoulder with a long sigh though she doesn’t doubt that their position on the ground is an uncomfortable and awkward one for both of them.

On the contrary, Varric doesn’t waste much time in trotting over to the pair while the demons turn to ash around them to rub an incredulous hand through his hair.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re worse than Hawke.”

“Who?” she retorts tiredly.

“... Nevermind that. You might want to get off the apostate before this _really_ gets awkward.”

“Right,” she rolls off of Wildris and rubs the bridge of her nose. Somewhere in the distance, she thinks that she can hear Lumen howling for her. The poor pup must be agonizing over the duo’s absence as much as the rest of them. Still, she can’t help but amusedly at Varric, who had trusted her enough to not lead him into certain death, “Been gone damn long for a piss break.”

“At this rate I think it’d be better for us to drown ourselves now before Cassandra does.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sol says, sitting up once Wildris begins to stir. It’s slow, at first. Perhaps the apostate figures that she’s merely overexerted herself again, and made more bargains that she cannot keep. But when that is not the case, she panics, scrambling on the ground feebly without the barest wisp of magic available to her after all that she’s done. That doesn’t make her fumbling any less pitiful, unfortunately.

Still, Sol finds that she’s very much the same in terms of exhaustion, swallowing and exchanging a look with Varric. She hadn’t planned this far. But holding her hands up disarmingly seems like a good start.

“I’m not - we’re not, templars.”

“Lies! _Lies!_ They always lie, they always lie...”

“Listen, I’m a mage too. See?” she tries, uneasily, and looks to her companion for help when all she can produce is a wisp of smoke from the center of her palm. She wonders how Solas can warp the fade around him with such ease, when she’s left like _this_ from trying one new spell. Damn egghead.

_I’ll show you once I’m done with this. You’ll see._

“Kid, when was the last time you ever saw a dwarven templar?”

“I.. I… I don’t understand. Why… why…”

Nevertheless, try as they might, they cannot coax more from the apostate than this, and soon, she falls silent entirely. But she has ceased her shaking and cowering, instead, firmly planted in one place with wide, sallow eyes. Sol thinks that it might be an even more depressing alternative.

They do not linger in this place long thereafter. Wildris is like a doll. She stares, doe-eyed into the waters as Sol and Varric guide her gently back towards camp, regressed and unseeing. Sol sees that they want to have a row even from a distance, but she wears her expression so stonily that her companions cannot help but question her quietly before the disconcerted arguing begins. So it goes. At least this way, Wildris is ushered safely out of earshot before she hears something that might trigger her to have another panic attack.

Sol regrets that she cannot accompany the apostate back to Haven immediately to receive proper care. She’s sure enough that the woman is well-cared for under Harding, at least for now, but there is one pressing issue to address before she can leave the Fallow Mire. And she doesn’t very well trust Cullen not to execute poor Wildris on the spot after all that she’s been through.

“Blackwall. You asked why the Inquisition is here. Some goat-fuckers kidnapped people that I’m supposed to be in charge of. You’re going to help me get them back, or you’re going to leave, because I’m up to here with this place and I’ve got a lot of people waiting for me.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

She has time for a poultice and a snack, but nothing more. Already, she can feel the pull of a Rift from inside the castle some odd islands away. Cassandra tries to insist that she rest more, but all she can think of is this:

If Wildris had driven herself mad just by being in this place, how would her soldiers fare, surrounded by people who despise them and everything that they stand for?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Don't worry darlings, I won't bore you with the Avvar. There's something else in store for our Inquisition friends. And shout out to all the lovely people who left a comment!/kudos Seriously, anything, even a - 'Grr I hate you for leaving it like this!' works! <3 I hope you all had a lovely Single's Awareness Day <3 ]


	7. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Solas is finally allowed visiting rights within the Fade, and Sol has to pull some strings to get things moving.
> 
> OR:
> 
> There's dreams, there's conversation, and somehow it's certain that Josie is about to have a whooole lot of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Hi, lovelies! Be forewarned, nothing too interesting happens in this one. To be honest, you could skip it and not miss much, but it is a transition into a much longer chapter that will be coming within the next few days! Stay tuned <3 and bear with me ]

Sol knows that she is in the Fade when sand and heat seeps between her toes instead of the unrefined chill of  _ that _ place. She knows that she sits beneath the shade of her favorite fern as she always does when she comes to this place, just a breath away from the modest spring that breathes life into her otherwise arid home. And, she knows that if she were to open her eyes, a landscape the color of sunset would reflect within them, complete with the sound of wrens chirring for food. 

Unfortunately, that knowledge is bittersweet in light of the fact that this is just the Fade, and she is a mere bucket of water away from being thrust back into what she’s accepted to be the ‘real’ world. Such things are especially prudent given how, every now and again, she can feel more than one presence seeking to invade her sanctuary - as if she doesn’t get enough of that in her waking hours. But tonight is a rather special case, and so the weary witch bids open the gate to her dreams after deciding that she need not disguise the oasis as anything else. Her visitor would not be able to discern its true location, after all. 

The look on Solas’s face when she finally deigns him worthy of what little free time she has is more than enough to convince her that his intrusion is worth what is sure to be a future headache. 

She watches, chin atop her knees as his surprise melts into intrigue, and ultimately something that reminds her of a mixture between smugness and relief. She can almost hear him say:  _ “ah, but I knew it would only be a matter of time.” _

“This is not Rivain,” he states, conversationally, “nor is it the place that you dreamt in when last we met.”

“The funny thing about that is that I never said anything about being from Rivain. Our dear Lady Ambassador seems to think that it’s reasonable enough, though. Wildris too. What do you think, Solas?”

He seems to ignore her question, but his head does tilt in her direction in a manner that indicates thought, “So the lost child speaks. I’d have thought you incapable of the gentle touch that such things require. She is faring well in your care, I assume?”

She realizes belatedly that he’s teasing her, though that doesn’t stop her from snorting quietly in reponse. Solas seems to take this as an invitation to duck out of the Fade sun and join her beneath the fronds of the fern.

“There’s a lot of things that you don’t know about me, baldy. But she’s doing well enough, yeah. Still scared to sleep and all, but she doesn’t look at me like I’m going to bite her head off at any moment anymore.”

He rolls his eyes dismissively, not truly caring for the apostate beyond the fact that her presence facilitates conversation with their tempermental Herald. Wildris had twisted noble beings from the Fade to her own purposes, making her an unlikely subject for his compassion.

Nonetheless, his eyes leave the Herald and return to their surroundings contemplatively; they’re dry, hot, and endless. All of these things he’s familiar with, but the lack of wildlife is enough to make him wonder, “Why this place?”

“Because it’s home,” she sighs, raking a hand through her curls tiredly. That's all she has to say on the matter for the time being. “Any word from our illustrious Commander? I’m trying to plan the rest of my week out  _ without _ fighting anyone. Shocking, I know.”

If her deflecting displeases him, he hides it well, though not as well as when she brings Cullen into the equation. For obvious reasons she supposes, each man being what he is. 

“You have noticed the templars outside your door, day and night, have you not?”

“‘ _ For my own good,’  _ I heard. As if Wildris is liable to start summoning demons left and right at any moment. I wonder how long it will take him to pay a visit himself? Has Varric started the betting yet?”

“You underestimate his aversion to our kind.”

“Like I underestimated yours to  _ my _ kind, if you recall.”

He regards her thinly, “I have met very few humans worth my time. Our history does not lend itself to willful cooperation.”

Sol sighs. Sometimes she wonders if that would have applied to her, were she not cursed with the mark on her palm. She decides that she doesn’t want to know, either way. It’s not as if she plans to stick around after this whole ordeal is done with.

“Right,” she starts, determined to drop the subject, “about that jump thing in the Mire…”

“Have you finally come to your senses and decided to continue your training?” he marvels obnoxiously, his smirk returning in full force.

Sol however, meets it with a shove and an almost playful narrowing of her eyes, “Don’t push your luck,  _ amigo.  _ I’ve got plenty of other mages dying to help me.”

“None so suitable as I. Shall we,  _ da’len _ ?”

“Sure thing, right after you tell me what that means.”

Solas seems smug, “So I will, after you reveal the secrets of this place to me. Until then….”

“Until then.”

_ Bastard. _

  
  


When she wakes, she’s greeted by soft light and two pairs of eyes looming over her. Ordinarily, this would be startling, but she’s grown accustomed to the staring after the first few nights - Lumen usually wouldn’t be one to fuss over her this way, but perhaps Wildris is rubbing off on him. 

“Call the dogs off, I’m alive,” Sol croaks, reaching to ruffle fur and hair respectively as a means to push them out of her way so she can sit up. 

“Y-you looked… agitated,” Wildris offers, this being the reason for her mini-vigil today. Seeing as how she’d been requisitioning sleeping draughts from Sol so as to avoid dreaming, the topic of the Herald’s dreams became a subject of fascination to her very quickly. In an effort not to bore her with the same dream, Sol usually fabricates something interesting but seeing as how her night was atypical in that sense, so is her answer. 

“I saw something ugly in the Fade, is all,” Sol explains, privately amused. 

“In any case, I think I’ve figured out what we’re going to do. I’d propose just running away, but...”

Sol turns her hand over, peering into the warping green that’s enveloped her palm. Away from rifts it almost looks harmless. However, the persistent pins and needles that have come to cradle her elbow will not allow her to forget; this thing festering slowly like a rotten wound, and she has no hope of resolving the matter on her own.

Unaware of the dark turn of her thoughts, Lumen hops out of bed and shakes the sleep from his coat happily while he prowls towards the door. The Herald muses that her poor pup must be feeling stir-crazy after being cooped up for the past few days; she admits that she feels much the same. She might be something of a recluse, but she does enjoy fresh air. Wildris however, is not as enthused with the prospect of facing Haven. She reaches for the Herald’s sleeve, and frowns at it deeply. 

“Th-they’re g-g-going to make me t-tranquil.”

Sol forces a tight-lipped smile and pats the woman’s hand in the most soothing manner she can muster before glancing towards the door. They’d talked at length about Wildris’s escape and her life in the circle prior; it’d been a dreary one. After Kirkwall, there were only two extremes to which most of the templar order responded, and compassion was not often one of them. 

“Anyone who gets bold is getting a boot up their ass and a fat lip for their trouble. As you might have noticed, I’m a bit untouchable at the moment. Which means you are too, if I feel like it.”

That’s easier said than done, of course and the thought of that power makes her uncomfortable but Sol concludes that if it’s used for a good cause, then everything should work out in the end. 

The apostate doesn’t seem as convinced, “Why are you d-d-doing this?”

Sol chews the inside of her cheek and slides out of bed to avoid thinking about the woman’s question too deeply. There is a time and a place for such matters, and this is neither of those. 

“It’s the right thing to do, that’s all. Come on, the less people we run into, the better.”

Wildris swallows and pulls on her borrowed shoes, following the Herald in silence acquiescence. 

  
  


Sol is lucky enough to run into Blackwall on the way to the Chantry, and he’s glad to help her manage Wildris while she does the heavy lifting. He seems appreciative of the fact that she’s giving the apostate a second chance. 

“That’s what Wardens do anyway, right? Piss people off and snatch criminals off the chopping block, or so I hear. I’m practically an honorary Warden.”

He seems to find a dark sort of humor in that.

Wildris herself seems to warm to the idea of Blackwall because of his presence as a Gray Warden. With the combination of the Warden’s burly body to her left, and Lumen nipping playfully at her heels, she almost feels as though the seemingly impossible task put before them is bearable. That is, before they enter the Chantry. 

  
  


“Josephine… I need a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Congrats if you made it this far, I'm sincerely proud of you. I promise I won't make the wait terribly long after that cliffie <3 ]


	8. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fate of Wildris is determined, and Sol discovers precisely why you shouldn't make deals with the devil. 
> 
> OR:
> 
> Mage Rights™ are People Rights™, there's a Glo Up™ , and as Katy Perry would say: "'Cause you're hot then you're cold'...."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ We're warming up a little with this one, y'all. It was a blast to write and left me feeling fuzzy inside! As always, enjoy! ]

Cullen is relieved when the Herald calls together a meeting, having had enough of their dancing around each other on a matter in which  _ clearly _ safety is a priority over her whims. At present, he is certain that he at least has the support of Cassandra and Leliana, which is enough to make him feel confident as he strides through the doors of the Chantry, as well-put together as he’s ever been. Which is well and good, until he catches sight of Sol herself.

For the first time since his days as a templar, the great Commander Cullen is stuck hovering in a doorway, biting the inside of his cheek for lack of anything to say for the image before him. There she is, the object of his frustration for the past week or so, fussing over the war table in a tunic which has no business being as low-necked as it is. Moreover, the generous bundle of cream-colored fur gathered atop her shoulders and lining the cleavage of her tunic borders on being outright erotic in contrast to the warm color of her skin, and the way that the garment cinches  _ just so _ at her waist with the help of a small corset. From the slits at either side of her hips, Cullen can see dark-colored tights which disappear just beyond the table, but he has no doubt that even these are as form-fitting as the rest of her chosen attire for the day. Even Sol’s unruly mane of hair, which she is often content with leaving free, is half pulled into a bun atop her head, and half left to frame her shoulders and her arms. 

Fleetingly, and over the sound of his own heart skipping in his ears, the Commander wonders:

_ “Maker’s breath… has she set out to seduce me over this matter?” _

He’s heard of such things, from Leliana and even Josephine herself - it is a common tactic amongst both bards and diplomats, after all. But for this? And… and here? The more his mind mulls these fantasies over, the more impossible they seem; but, here she is - alone, and wearing  _ that _ when just days prior she hadn’t bothered with more than just a belt for practicality. The notion, unthinkable as it is, brings a healthy and very visible flush to both his ears and his cheeks. He sincerely hopes that she mistakes it for a trick of the light.

However, when she finally takes note of him it is with none of the coyness he had expected but instead, with a remarkably awkward and sheepish grin. The Herald rubs her good palm over her forehead and grimaces when she catches some of the powders there before gesturing for Cullen to join her at the table. Where the two might have once been at each other’s throats from the beginning, now there is a new element that is enough to halt hostilities - for the moment, at least. 

“I know, it’s very--”

“Ah, yes, you’re--”

She coughs into her fist, resisting the urge to both laugh and strangle Josephine when she

feels it time to make an appearance,  “I know, I know.”

“Erm, yes. Thank you.”

Finally, she can take no more and dissolves into laughter, prompting Cullen to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. So much for his composure. 

This is how the rest of the advisors find them - Josephine, with a remarkably innocent expression, Leliana looking mischevious, and Cassandra seeming ready to conclude this meeting for a nap. Sol seems to somber with their presence, straightening her back while one hand remains on the table, and the other rises to find the swell of her hip. 

“I know you all think I’m irresponsible-”

Cassandra snorts, “Tell me about it.”

Sol glares at her playfully, “Shut it, Lady Seeker. You’ll have your five minutes in a second. As I was saying, by now I’m sure you’ve all heard about who I’ve brought home. You two, especially - mail vulture, Cullen.”

Leliana smirks, while Cullen merely gives a long exhale in acknowledgement, dissuaded from ogling her chest by the matter at hand.

“Ladies, opinions?” she asks, nodding towards the grouping of women since Cullen’s opinion is obvious. That, and her fabulous plan won’t unravel as it should if she merely jumps down his throat with her proposal.

Cassandra sighs, and glances between the two, “I must agree with Cullen on this. Had you not run off on your own with Varric, we would not even be in this situation.”

“I concur,” Leliana adds, “how could she be of use to the Inquisition when she cannot even be of use to herself?”

“Indeed,” Josephine says, straight-faced, “the peace of mind of those already situated in Haven seems too high a price for one apostate, does it not?”

Sol regards them all with pressed lips, “It’s not just one apostate. What we decide to do with her is going to either give people hope or drive them away.  _ I’m  _ the Inquisition. And I don’t want to be a mage-killer.”

“Please, we’re not planning to execute her,” Cullen refutes stubbornly.

“No, that would be mercy. Making someone  _ tranquil _ isn’t a fucking solution either. It’s disgusting, inhumane, and what started this damn war in the first place!”

“What you are asking,” he presses, doggedly, “is for us to ignore the severity of her actions. We should not -  _ cannot _ allow mages to reap benefits for acting out of line!”

“You could say the same damn thing about the templars! Mad with power, like - like starved wolves looking for the next thing to sink their jaws into!”

By now, the two are nearly chest-to-chest, Sol baring her teeth as Lumen would if he were here while Cullen grimaces at her, stern and resolute. Fortunately, Cassandra comes between them, and pushes each back by the shoulder. Sol nearly snarls at her for it, but she catches herself, letting her nostrils flare for a moment to vent some of her anger. Everything had seemed so  _ easy  _ in theory, and then Cullen had to go and open his big, stupid --  _ ugh. _

“Enough, children. What ever the case may be, clearly, it is four against one. If there is nothing else--”

“ _ No he terminado _ ,” Sol hisses, reminding herself to make her point and fast, before she loses her temper again, “What do we have, Cullen? Who do the mages have? Our agents have Leliana! The soldiers and what’s left of the templars have you! So tell me, who do the mages have to help them? To train and guide them? If the Inquisition is going to help people, we need to  _ help  _ them.  _ All _ of them. We can’t just… we can’t just leave them.  _ We _ are people too.”

She’s shaking, and she knows that she’s grown red and watery-eyed from the looks on both Cassandra and Cullen’s faces. She hadn’t planned this, but it’s certainly a fair reflection of her feelings, even if the matter hadn’t personally involved her until recently. Her chest heaves of its own accord and although she knows that it is out of frustration, it’s embarrassing nonetheless.

However, Leliana seems to take her cue from it and steps forward to touch Cassandra’s shoulder lightly to announce her presence. The Nightingale then holds a gilded envelope between the feuding parties, nodding to it meaningfully. 

“Perhaps there is some merit to considering it, Commander. I believe that we have received an invitation from a person who would be most suited to this task.”

Sol, relieved, chances a glance towards Josephine who would appear to be inconspicuously interested if she didn’t know better. 

She smirks at Cullen and gestures towards the letter, “After you, ‘Curly.’”

He makes a face at her, though the heat of before has been replaced by something more subdued. She had, for lack of better wording, caught him off guard with the happenings of the past few minutes.  

“Don’t start with me on that too. Let’s just…,” he waves his hand uselessly, taking the letter from Leliana to refocus himself on work.

Huh. It seems that diplomacy  _ does  _ have its uses after all. 

  
  


“So, what do I owe you, Lady Ambassador?”

The meeting had been concluded soon after they’d gone over the invitation, with Cullen at least agreeing to work with her on the disparity in resources between the templar and mage population in Haven. He had also agreed to leave Wildris be for the moment, on the condition that she at least be accompanied by an escort of his choosing, or one of her companions until Sol’s business with the Imperial Enchanter is finished.

Josephine pretends to consider her question, as if she hadn’t already given the matter great thought in preparation for this exact moment, “While your request was in no way out of my means, it did cost me a few favors that I had hoped to keep for a special occasion… hm, I think… yes, I think that will do it.”

The Lady Ambassador props her elbows atop her desk and links her fingers together, peering at Sol pleasantly, “I think another visit from my tailor is in order, as well as other reputable professionals from Orlais to ensure that you are representing the Inquisition as well as possible while in Haven. And, I believe that a full day of pampering would benefit us all before you leave for the Imperial Enchanter’s salon.”

Sol groans, rubbing her temples, “My  _ papa _ always told me not to bargain with the devil. Now I know why.”

Josephine chuckles, content now that she’s managed to work herself into an advantageous position, “Please, you act as if anything remotely frilly is torture. Nobody ever died from a girl’s night in!”

“Yet, Lady Ambassador.  _ Yet _ . Tell your designer to give me a more practical neckline!”

Though truthfully, she’s rather fond of the dalish look of her outfit. She finds that not much in human fashion interests her, but the elvhen might just be on to something, which she’s willing to admit even if a certain egg will never let live it down. Just another thing for the general populace of Orlais to be scandalized over, she’s sure.

What ever the case, she and Josephine part on relatively peaceful terms for once, with the former feeling grateful that the latter hadn’t asked for anything more extreme, and the latter happy with the progress that they’d made. 

With that done and said, Sol rakes her fingers through the root of her bun and resolves to find Lumen. He’s been an exceptionally good friend through all of this, and she has just the thing to treat him. As luck would have it, her best friend is fraternizing with her would-be enemy and now it’s her turn to lean in a doorway to watch the two wrestle. Cullen’s laughter is infectious, and so it’s not long before she gives herself away with her snickering.

The poor man seems incredibly flustered once he realizes that she’d seen most of what had transpired within the past few minutes, now rolling to his feet hastily with an ungloved hand combing through his curls. Lumen on the other hand brushes right past his leg on his way to greet Sol, paws up in an attempt to give her chin a few sloppy kisses. The two touch foreheads affectionately before she pats the pup’s side to address Cullen.

“You know, I think you two might have missed each other juuuust a bit.”

“Ah - well, I understand that he has his duties. But he does motivate the troops when he comes by, so he’s always welcome.”

Sol rolls her eyes, “Yes, the  _ troops _ . Listen, are we good? There’s more than a few people who have helped me by this point, and you’re one of them. I don’t like to bite the hand that feeds me, you know?”

Cullen clears his throat, remarking with almost-amusement, “Of course you would worry over such things. Herald -- Sol, this is not easy for me.”

And this time, he’s referring to more than just their perpetual feud over mage rights. 

“I know, I… ugh. Do you want to just get drunk and forget about this shit?”

Cullen blinks. Of all the options that she could have chosen, she offers him a drink? The confusion must have shown on his face, because Sol proceeds to laugh and ask him if it’s ‘one of those things that templars don’t do.’

“Who tells you these things? And no, for the record, we  _ can _ drink.”

“Varric, obviously. Can’t tell when he’s exaggerating half the time, but 50/50 is pretty good chances, right? Anyway, drink or no? ‘Cause I can go get shitfaced all on my own, Commander.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve talked me into it,” he grins.

“I commend you, you resisted  _ really  _ hard there,” Sol snickers, asking him to meet her in the tavern after she gathers the others. Cullen can’t help but watch after her as she goes, reflecting that even this is proof of the progress that their friendship has made. Now, if only they could find a way to channel their bickering into something more productive.

For some reason, the thought alone is enough for him to rub a hand over the smile spreading over his lips.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I'm sure we all know who the Connection™ was in this chapter ;) Cullen is honestly hysterical to write. But for those of you feeling like the egg is left out, we're about to head out! And I ASSURE you that the salon will not be as boring as in-game.
> 
> However, a vote:
> 
> Please let me know if you would like to read the girls' night in! I was going to write it anyway, but if for some reason someone hates that, just let me know. Thanks for reading, lovelies! ]


End file.
